


Confession

by Teh_Poet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Poly, UST, cursing, hlv fixit, prepoly, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1699748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teh_Poet/pseuds/Teh_Poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a small amount of history, but neither ever thought it appropriate to fully pursue the other in totality. When Sherlock is banished after the events leading to Magnusson's death, he decides to confess to John where his heart lay this entire time. When Moriarty reveals his return before Sherlock's even left the airfield, Mary John and Sherlock must all deal with the confession as well as the fact that Sherlock's feelings are not technically unrequited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

> this is teh text version of the fanart fixit comic Confession created by Teh Kita and Catie-Brie on tumblr
> 
> http://whatareweidonteven.tumblr.com/post/80097356551/original-text-first-page-next-page
> 
> edit (5/26/15):  
> Was going to be a continuing serial, but we've taken a different direction... There is more work in this universe, but this section of teh story stands as complete (for now) and stands as a backdrop for the Confession!verse...

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the 'end call' button distractedly, staring blankly ahead and feeling devestatingly numb.

If he were a verbose man, the words echoing around his head may have been something along the lines of 'shit shit, what do I do now, maybe the plane will crash before we land, shit what did I just do?!' but as it was, Sherlock prided himself as a man who had his shit together. So of course he wasn't panicking. Not at all.

SHIT.

He willed the sweat away, rubbing his palms against his trouser legs. He willed the termor away from his fingers, clamping them into his fists and sitting on his hands. He willed the sheer terror away, breathing deeply and convincing himself that the conversation had simply never taken place.

But it had. 

Could he ignore this? Could he walk off this plane, go right up to them to him and pretend everything is as it was just minutes ago? He'd done it before they'd done it before surely he could fall back on that Holmesian stoicism one more time.

He thought back on the exact words, analysing the conversation for anything that could let him off the hook, loopholes misinterpretations mishearing anything. Could he play this off as a practical joke?

"John, there’s something ... I should say... I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." He'd steeled himself, tensing even as he prepared to lay himself bare.  
"Sherlock..." John didn't know what he was about to confess, couldn't know, but still he was uncomfortable, ever the steadfast Brit.  
"No, I... John, I lo-"  
"Sherlock, don't. Not now. Not... now..." It wasn't Sherlock's imagination that he saw the shine welling up in John's eyes. He'd tried to hide it by avoiding Sherlock's gaze.  
"John, please." It must have been the desperation in his tone that forced John to meet his eyes. They weren't crying. It wasn't the time for that.  
"John. You've always been important to me. I know I'm terrible at showing it, but I love you." And then quieter, "I think I always have." These words held meaning for them. Harkened back to their secret, the shared moment moments now they'd both pretended had never happened. For the sake of their friendship first, and then for John's marriage after. Sherlock couldn't hold it anymore though. "I know I'm being selfish now. I know I shouldn't be saying this, but... I couldn't leave you without..."  
John had held a hand up. He couldn't reciprocate with words, and Sherlock would never begrudge him that. It hadn't been a clandestine confession, meant to coerce any action from his John. He knew his place, knew Mary had usurped him in John's heart, if ever he'd had a place there to begin with. But he'd needed to lay his concious bare, confessing his sins on his deathbed before going to meet his maker.  
"Sherlock-" John had breathed it out, sighed it out heavily and looked on the verged of offering his own confesion or consoling words. Something along the lines of 'I can't give anything back' and Sherlock was damned if he was going to let John pity him for this. He held his hand out, and John looked down at it as if it were an alien creature. "Sherlock, what...?"  
"To the best of times, John" and John had deflated only a little, gripping him back and shaking perfunctorily. Ever the professional, ever the soldier. Sherlock had turned his back on him, boarded the plane, and succumbed to the profound sense of loss that threatened to overwhelm him entirely.

Sherlock stared at the door to the plan that had just opened. He was supposed to get up, disembark, meet his brother and get whisked away to places unknown to deal with god knows what problem had arisen in the ten minutes he'd been gone. But that was the last thing on his mind right now. Right now he needed to figure out how he could ever meet John Watson's eyes ever again.

-

John stood shocked into stillness staring after the disappeared form of his best friend. Mary had circled back and joined him by the car after she and Mycroft had seen Sherlock walk away, and she looped her arm through his, comforting without suffocating. John couldn't lean into her touch, he was conflicted. He'd been conflicted, but he'd made his decision. He'd made his decision long before Mary had even come along, but that decision did not preclude his feelings altogether and now the stupid git had gone and... He'd been able to keep a tight lid on the entire messy affair, minor slip notwithstanding, and he could at least pretend to be secure with his choices and he would have been happy to carry on this way for the rest of his life particularly if Sherlock was no longer going to be a part of it. 

But now. 

Now he needed some time. To mourn. He wouldn't shut Mary out, but he could ask for some privacy. Just a moment to lament the loss of a life that could have been and be grateful for what he still had. Mary was still here with him, and he would be happy. He wasn't settling, but he still felt like he was betraying her, just a little, by entertaining his feelings for the other man for even a moment. 

But he needed to mourn.

"Mary-"

"What did he say to you?"

John was startled by her cut to the quick. She wasn't simply curious. She knew there'd been a bombshell. "What?"

"You're not very good at hiding your emotions John. Suppressing them, sure, and maybe that's why you're so easy to read..."

He knew she was right, and he hated it. She had her secrets and he couldn't fault her for that, but he felt entitled to some of his own, especially this. He knew she would be devastated at the thought that he couldn't give himself over to her in totality and he'd made a vow to himself to never let her feel like she'd come second to Sherlock Holmes. And she hadn't. Not really. 

Not really.

"Mary, I just need-"

"John, I won't press, God knows I don't deserve to, but you can trust me. Whatever it is I won't judge you for it, either of you..."

It was as if she knew.

She reached up and pressed her fingertips against his jaw, turning his face down to meet her gaze. "Whatever it is, it's okay. It's fine, it's all fine."

They were both the right and the wrong words for her to use. She couldn't possibly know the significance of them, but all the same he could feel his blood pressure spike and his hands clenched into fists as he was taken back to a pivotal moment in his life all those years ago."It's not fine, Mary. He's gone, and even if he weren't-" He bit himself back. He didn't know what he wanted to say, he only knew that he had been more than happy to just pretend none of it had ever happened. That neither of them had spent the last four or five years pining after the other...

He was profoundly and immediately angry with Sherlock. 

It had been a selfish fucking thing to do. No matter where he turned, or what they were doing, Sherlock just had to turn John's life on it's head every chance he got. It was like some big joke to the man see how little it takes to break John Watson.

Distantly he realized that Mary's voice was floating to him from far away. "-hn, darling, just breath. It's alright, you're safe."

"Mary-" It came out gravely and he had to swallow back whatever was stuck in his throat. He breathed, just as she'd asked him to, and flexed his fingers until his palms ached. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't... It wouldn't change anything..."

Mary looked at him. Looked into him. She was good at that. "He-"

"Dr. Watson! I believe you should come see this."

Mary turned toward the car, seeking out Mycroft's voice. John couldn't follow, as his eyes glued to the plane that was now turning in a wide arc to circle around and come back toward them and the tarmac. John didn't know much about airplanes and flight plans but ... surely... "Mycroft. Why is the plane turning around?"

Mary's head whipped around, eyes large and round. Ah good, apparently the panic lacing his voice was detectable by everyone, not just him. "John, sweetheart, you really should come see this..."

John's feet carried him to the car without him properly registering the movement. "Mycroft why is the plane turning around?!" He knew he sounded hysterical. He felt hysterical. The looping image on the tiny tv in the backseat did little to soothe his fraying nerves. 

He was losing it. The last six months had been an illusion, a complicated hallucination, Sherlock wasn't alive, he and Mary were not married, they didn't have a baby on the way, Sherlock wasn't in love with him, and he certainly wasn't standing on a private airfield watching a plane coming in for landing.

That's because he was currently sitting on a private airfield watching a plane coming in for landing. When had he fallen to his knees?

"John!"

At least he wasn't the only one panicking... He leaned his head back against the car, waiting for reality to reassert itself. Now that he knew he'd cracked ages ago, surely this dream world would fizzle out and he'd wake up in whatever hospital whoever had put him in... Or maybe he was laying in a puddle of his own drool in the living room of Baker Street. Oh God, maybe he was dead and this was Hell.

He groaned and put his head in his hands, waiting for it all to fall apart and come back together.

"Mary, I believe the Doctor could use a glass of water..."

John felt a cold glass pressed into his hand and then helped to his lips. The cool liquid did enough to clear his head for him to realize that as the seconds passed and nothing changed, then maybe this wasn't a cruel afterlife or a particularly vivid fever-dream. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or not. He also couldn't decide which was worse-- that that madman Moriarty was apparently not dead either, or that he was now going to have to face Sherlock again after all. It was one thing when the revelation was dropped and then they were going to part ways forever. Horribly sad, but something that could be dealt with. Lock away the feelings, move on, that sort of thing. But now- 

John looked up as the door to the small plane opened and a wild-eyed Sherlock stepped off the tiny set of stairs. He resolutely avoided John's gaze, and crowded past Mary to lean into the vehicle. He shared a few words with his brother in the backseat and John wondered if things would ever be normal between them ever again. As if on cue, Sherlock pulled back out of the vehicle and looked down on John, still sitting heavily on the ground, and his eyes positively twinkled.

The bastard.

"Come now, John, get up. The game is on!"


End file.
